Elven lament
by Le Chat Noir
Summary: Daeron, the greatest minstrel Middle-Earth was ever to know. Lùthien Tinuviel, the most beautiful of the Children of Ilùvatar. A one-sided love. A kingdom at stake. A genius went mad. A pitiless fate. A side character lost in the great turmoil of the ti
1. The genius

Author's note : The end of the summary is : A side character lost in the great turmoil of the time glorified by the Lay of Leithian.  
  
This is really not LoTR, rather Silmarillion. And it's a Daeron fic, also featuring Lùthien, for your personal enjoyment. I actually wonder how many people know or remember who Daeron is ? What fascinates me the most in elves are their songs, their Lays, and their music, which I think holds the whole of their culture, as they seem to put everything into song … I found when I reread the Silmarillion that it was actually never said that Daeron was dead, and that maybe he isn't, and still dwells in the unknown parts of Middle Earth, singing … ::shudder:: And to be clear, Daeron does love Lùthien, but that love is never to be returned.  
  
The summer Beren was to meet Lùthien for the first time …  
  
  
  
Disclaimer : I don't own Daeron, Lùthien, Thingol, Melian, Beren, or Doriath. Or Menegroth, for that matter. Or Esgalduin and its grass. Or the Cirth. Or Finarfin's House's ring. Or nightingales. Or trees. Or music.  
  
  
  
  
  
And so the tune goes on …  
  
By Le Chat Noir  
  
  
  
'She whom her father puts higher than all the princes of the Eldalië, who am I to even lay eyes on her ?'  
  
The moonlight danced among the trees of the forest around Menegroth. Lùthien, yet to be Tinuviel, followed its pace upon the fresh grass of Esgalduin, mere reflection of a moonbeam in the woods. The glimmers of the dew on the leaves glittered on her dress of silver, and the summer night had sown stars into her midnight hair. Appearing in the flower of her youth, her age could yet already be counted by the century, and for longs years had her feet trod the ground of Doriath.  
  
She danced to the music of an invisible lute, to the sound of a voice which seemed to come from all the trees at the same time. An elven melody, silvery like the stars and the night and herself, clear and simple like a burst of laughter in the silence, and yet sad, sad enough to shatter the heart of anyone unprepared for its piercing beauty. The voice, impersonal and cold, never trembling, almost too perfect, but tainted such that one who had heard it even only once before could have immediately told it wasn't giving its full power, was indeed held back, and for a reason nothing could have torn away from the singer's lips. Flowing like a stream in the forest, light like the chirping of the birds in springtime, floating like a fallen leaf carried by the autumn wind, icy like a snowflake in the winter sky, the song had no words to it, but the harmony was enough to carry the listener's heart and thoughts away from the Earth, away from this world, all the way to the stars and beyond.  
  
Such was the music of Daeron of Doriath, minstrel of Thingol.  
  
Often would her own voice rise in duet with the one of the unseen bard, and then would the wind cease its rustling in the branches. The forest itself paused, and held its breath, to listen to the combination of the soft, dreamy and rich voice of the maiden intertwined with that one of the other elf. Singing the tune he had composed, the last one she was to hear from him, but not the last he was to write, alone in his night, to her loss, and him singing with her, it was nearly the very image of perfection that shewed itself to the prying eye, that night, to who knew how to watch : the most beautiful of the Children of Ilùvatàr, daughter to a king and a Maia, and the music and voice of he who invented the Cirth.  
  
For a long time, the song carried on, and the moon rose higher into the sky. For a short moment, if the sharpest-eyed of the elves had looked to the right place, into the right tree, they could have caught a glimpse of white standing out against the darkness, but without deciphering what it was. It would have been a piece of paper, on which were scribbled unreadable writings and signs, of the same hand that now held them. For in that tree would be sitting Daeron, assuming a nonchalant and indifferent pose, but his keen eyes watching every step his beloved took, drinking in her light and beauty like a sweet poison. And, most unbelievable, it was from those incoherent lines of seemingly nothing sensible that formed, for he who could read them, the fabulous music that silenced nightingales.  
  
Slowly, it faded away. As the young woman continued to dance silently around the clearing, slower and slower, lower and lower, the voice in the trees diminished, till only a whisper subsisted, and then the skilful fingers ceased to pinch the instrument's cords, letting the last note resound in the forest. The dance came to a halt. For a second there was an almost religious silence. Then Lùthien of Doriath burst into laughter, turning around to stare into the exact place where she knew her musician would be sitting, unaware of the torture she caused him.  
  
'My music might be considered the best in all Middle-Earth, never will it get close to a single one of her laugh.'  
  
From where a second before there was nothing, the minstrel trust his head from between the interlaced branches of the tall trees. One could have seen with certain surprise that the face of the royal story-teller, when usually it is the share of those who have seen and lived through much, was but the one of a normal Teleri, young-looking, thin and sharp, framed with long dark hair and lit by large, brilliant blue eyes.  
  
"So, what does my lady think of it ?" The voice in itself was musical, but at that moment shivering, and he himself never understood how he got his words to get pas the lump in his throat, those nights, when she stood laughing under the tree in which he sat.  
  
"Perfect, Daeron, just as always ! This one will I sing tomorrow for my father." While talking, she twirled away from him, towards the trees, in the direction of Menegroth.  
  
"Does my lady need the music ?" The bard in his tree called after her, waving the papers in the air with his free hand, the other clasping the lute under his arm.  
  
"No, no ! I know it already, who could not ? And whoever could read your handwriting anyway, Daeron ?" Still laughing, and singing the tune to herself in the darkness, she swiftly ran the way back to her father's palace.  
  
Daeron followed her with his far-seeing elven gaze, not daring to utter a sound. Silently, branch after branch, the greatest minstrel Middle-Earth was ever to know let himself slid down to the last, being careful not to harm a leaf, part because of his love for the trees, part because of the sound that would disturb the perfect melody of the music. His music, but not perfect. The best, but still not perfect. When he reached the last branch, hanging for a moment with one hand unto it, he fell for the last few meters that still separated him from the ground, and landed on his feet just as soundlessly. Far away in the night, the last notes of the tune died into a sigh.  
  
'It was only a song to the beauty of the stars. Now, a song to yours, my lady, to yours, …'  
  
For a long time he paced around the clearing, mindlessly retracing the steps she had taken. Eventually, with an angry gesture, he tore the manuscripts into thousand pieces, and threw them up in the air. Letting himself fall unto the grass with a sigh, he flipped over to lay on his stomach, and extracted from a little pack on his back some crumpled paper and a pencil. Sometimes pulling a little tune out of his lute, he stayed there long into the night, scribbling of his demented writing style, as the music rushed through his head to the beauty of his loved one.  
  
Middle-Earth was never to see his equal.  
  
But his destiny and that of the princess of Doriath was nearing, wrapping up already, for that night, stumbling, drained of strength and half dead, entered the forest a stranger, a man whom only a terrible fate still carried on his legs, with on his finger a ring on which stood forever frozen two emerald-eyed snakes …  
  
  
  
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Author's note : More is to come, for those who want to know, as what actually happens after this. I hope this story is to get better with time, as for the moment the beginning of chapter two displeases me to an unbelievable point. I am most proud of a few sentences in this, the rest can just be considered crap. For the moment, well, content yourself with reviewing, please ! ^_^ 


	2. Once a traitor

Author's note : I so hate the beginning of this. The ending is much better, I think. I least I hope it is. I hate mushy stuff, and now it seems very likely that this chapter has turned into the mushiest thing I've ever written … Die, fic of mine … ::stabs computer screen::  
  
Remember the gift of the elven minstrels, to be able to make what they sing about appear in actual real life, and that stuff about magic songs and that ? They are quite reluctant to do that, though, and usually put a "veil" on their voice, lest they would enchant everyone within earshot … And Lùthien and Daeron are both very powerful elven singers, Lùthien because of her Maia ancestry, and Daeron simply because of talent.  
  
I'm actually quite sure Lùthien and Daeron were very good friends. If it wasn't the case, then why did Lùthien ask for his help when escaping ?  
  
In this part, as will be in the next one, the PoV switches between narrator and Daeron, but still in the third person anyway, so. And I'm really sorry for their speech, I just couldn't make it sound ancient-like. Forgive me, as English's not my first language … And I like it better that way. I beg thy pardon.  
  
  
  
And so the tune goes on …  
  
By Le Chat Noir  
  
  
  
He had been sitting there for a long time, staring at the ground and softly humming to himself, when she waltzed into the clearing, light-footed as always and shining as always, beaming to the warm summer breeze, and it playing with her hair. As usual, his heart startled abruptly in his chest, but bitterly, and he did not dare raise his eyes, for an anxious frown had cast a cloud over them. It had been four weeks she hadn't come to their daily meetings, after the celebration at Menegroth when she had sung his song to Elbereth and the stars her hand had sown. And each day in the forest he had sworn to himself not to come to wait the next day, but each morrow had he found himself sitting there again, feigning indifference but utterly and forever failing to gather again the little pieces of his soul that fled everyday from him.  
  
"Hail, Daeron."  
  
Today she stood there in front of him, laughing, forgetful, more radiant than he had ever seen her.  
  
~'Silver no more, but the richest of gold.'~  
  
"If my lady permits it, I would like to ask a question." He had stood, and bowed low, and she just smiled under his questioning stare. Behind his back he hid the some ten sheets of paper on which he had neatly, or so it seemed to him, laid down his music to her, Lùthien, daughter to Melian. The masterpiece of his life, this time, nearest to perfection than anything he had ever written, and he knew that if only he was allowed to give his voice the free lance, than it would be the one to achieve what he had wanted always. But that would never happen, not under the law of Thingol, not within the frontiers of Doriath.  
  
"Well certainly, my friend." Seeming unable to stay still for more than mere moments, she took some steps around the meadow, dancing for herself.  
  
It seemed that the merrier she was, the more shadows heaped upon his heart, and the joy and gaiety in her voice only darkened, without apparent reason, the world to his eyes.  
  
"How come that today my lady looks more beautiful than the sun itself in the sky of August ?" And again, that musical, silvery, clear voice, the voice he hated because of its perfection, its lack of human tones, or rather, of course, not human, but simply so un-lifelike he could not make the emotions of a normal spirit pass through it, lest he should sing, and then only the glory of the stars and past heroes and lost epics. The elf maiden simply laughed the compliment away, and stood staring at him for a time, as if debating something in her head she wanted to smile about. Daeron stood there, maintaining his face as expressionless as he could, fighting the loosing battle of restraining himself from suddenly jumping over to her, and engage in one of those elflings' fighting game they used to have when they were younger … much younger.  
  
"Daeron, you know you've been one of the first I've ever considered as a friend. One could even say that you are my best, if not only real friend."  
  
It was no good. No good at all. He didn't know why, but her voice, for the first time, brought dread to him.  
  
"I guess I can tell you."  
  
And each of her smile was a stab in his heart, as if he knew what was coming. Of course he knew. Too often had he seen that look in a girl's eyes, that tone in their voice, that spring in their step, not to see, not to have seen at the very first look …  
  
"I'm in love, Daeron, you know what ?"And of pure happiness her gaze shone, as she twirled, singing, around the meadow, feeling the sweet taste of the words on her lips.  
  
"He bears name Beren, son of Barahir."  
  
A bitter, bitter taste came into his mouth, and he wanted to spit. Above all, it had to be a Man ? Few and faint rumours of Barahir's twelve compagnions' feats and fall had reached the edge of Melian's Ring, and even lesser had crossed it to reach the ears of the Grey-elves. The general opinion among Thingol's people, following the lead of their King, was that the Edain, Second-Borns, were creatures of rank little above the Orcs. The Elves of Doriath hadn't forgotten the many treasons of the Mortals, spies and soldiers for Morgoth. He had the hardest time to prevent a scornful laugh from escaping his throat, and for once thanked his self-control and mastery of acting. He even managed to force a sincere-looking smile upon his face. But, Lùthien's eyes, clouded by her bliss, saw nothing but the true joy of a friend. He said nothing, as if waiting for more to come. However he needed hear no more.  
  
~'I wish my lady good luck, in front of her father.'~  
  
"I thought, maybe, you know …" She hesitated. It was the first time he had ever heard her to.  
  
~'Yes ?'~  
  
"You're in favour by my Father, and maybe you could speak for him …" A quick laugh. "You know the dispositions of Menegroth well enough."  
  
"If your voice can do nothing, my lady, to the sentence of Thingol, than my say will be of but wretched good."  
  
The answer had come swiftly, crossing the threshold of his lips almost without him ordering it to, and he thought it good, for if he had managed to hold it back, it would have had to be another she would had heard, and for nothing in the world … She turned away, feebly smiling, but at the moment his mind was to confused and chaotic to regret his words. An uncomfortable silence settled.  
  
At that moment, a hoarse voice called, "Tinùviel !" , far away, from somewhere among the trees, as that of one who had not spoken for long time, and had forgotten to. Once again, Daeron felt a pang. How could such a cracked, dry voice dare speak a tongue so noble and pure ? Utter that name of beauty and magic ? But not long did he dwell in his thoughts, for in the blink of an eye with a last flash of laughter, Luthien daughter of Thingol had plunged into the forest, disappearing behind the bushes.  
  
For a moment he stayed still, thunderstruck, trying to get his head to function normally again. Then, with heart still clouded by a shadow of doubt, he went after her, following as silently as he could, and at a safe distance, for he knew, anyway, that if he was the one who had taught her her art of music and dancing, her vigilance and sharp hearing had been trained by Mablung, first Captain of the King, himself.  
  
  
  
  
  
Stop. Do not make a noise. Not a sound. Hold your breath. Stay still.  
  
They were too infatuated in looking at one another. Walking round the clearing, talking. The world was no more to them. No more than the sanctuary of their eternal love.  
  
Observe. Listen. Can not blind your eyes. Can not deafen your ears.  
  
Eyes locked. Stop pacing. A shy kiss.  
  
See. Hear. Bear. Turn away.  
  
A slight rustle in the leaves they didn't hear, too slight to be that of a rabbit, too harsh to be that of an elf. It was the sign that the royal minstrel had left the outskirts of the clearing, stumbling on the roots of Neldoreth, blinded by the light, blinking his tears away, with a lot less control of his body and acts as he usually had.  
  
As he ran towards Menegroth that afternoon, the doom of Doriath came one thundering step nearer.  
  
  
  
He didn't stop running when he reached the border of the forest, but then fell into a walk, the fastest one he could muster without attracting the attention of all the inhabitants of the Hidden City. Running on foot in Menegroth wasn't an everyday sight. Most elves with ranks high enough to be assigned urgent tasks or messages had horses.  
  
No one stopped him at the door of the palace. The guards knew him well, and it was anyway the place he officially belonged in. His steps resounded in the corridors, as he strode past the tall windows carved out from the walls of stone. The soldiers in front of the ebony door to the Great Hall where Thingol and Melian sat were usually a bit more of a challenge to get pass when the King was in High Council, as he was now, but the bard's despair and wrath had grown to be so great that he couldn't care less. They didn't stop him.  
  
  
  
Elwë Singollo, King of the Teleri of Middle-Earth, First-Born among the First-Borns, sat on his throne, with his wife, Queen Melian the Maia, to his right. In front of him, facing each other, stood the two rows of his best counsellors and most trusted men, chosen among the wisest and most skilful of the Elves of Doriath, assembling some of the greatest who ever lived to see the plains of Beleriand. There were Mablung, his First Captain, Beleg Cuthàlion, come from the northern frontiers of the Kingdom, Saeros, a Nandor, and many more whose sole name could strike fear in the heart of any Orc, and respect to any Elf.  
  
The Council had been called on urgency, for an important band of Orcs, led by an unknown shadow and rallying around it, had crossed the labyrinths of the Ring, and many of Beleg's men had fallen during the assault, before the rest of them had managed to retreat.  
  
"Usually Orcs wouldn't even have been considered a minor problem. However that day it was different. Alas for my comrades. There was something else, something we couldn't identify. The shadow …"  
  
The door flew open, interrupting his speech, and everyone turned their gaze to the newcomer, and whispers erupted all around the hall. Only Melian stayed still and silent. Thingol stood from his seat, eyes flaring with anger, and Saeros spoke.  
  
"Who dares disturb the Council of my King ?"  
  
"Daeron, minstrel of Thingol." Announced the guard at the door. And as all followed him of their eyes, the figure clothed in shades of grey and white advanced in between them, and great turmoil of emotions could be read on his face. Arrived at the foot of the stairs to the throne, he bent knee in front of his King.  
  
"News, my Lord."  
  
  
  
  
  
Author's note : OMG, I can't believe I'm actually finished with this chapter. You know the phenomenon, when at the beginning the story just comes flowing out of your head, and then it gets harder and harder ? It's a kind of writer's block, I guess. I was going to add some stuff to this chapter, but will just have to include it in another one. I'm dead right now. Need sleep. The next chapter might either be the continuation of the story, either a scene from the youth of Daeron and Lùthien. I don't know which to put first. You guys think ? 


	3. Twice a traitor

Author's note : Huh, in some parts of this, I tried to imitate Tolkien's writing style a little … don't know if it worked out. So just don't be confused if it jumps from one style to another … Blah … Hey, I like using 'and's, so leave me alone. 

And so the tune goes on …

By Le Chat Noir

They entered the Hall together, escorted by Mablung and Beleg, like prisoners. The Man's eyes were wide open, with wonder, amazement and fear. But if Lùthien's gaze was steady and defiant as she looked upon the assistants, when she hooked on Daeron's, it was a quick, imperceptible cry for help to the only one who was a friend in the hostile crowd no one else saw. He even wondered if he had really seen it himself. 

Reigned a silence of marble, and Thingol's wrath was great, and no one dared utter a word. For one moment everyone thought the Man was doomed. But as the King's sentence hung in the air …

"For I too desire a forbidden treasure …"

Daeron paid no heed to the rest of the phrase. Who needed to ? Once again, Mandos' Curse was at work. 

The Man laughed, and for the second time that day, dread overcame his heart. He had no fear. He had no chance. No chance to ever return. And remembering Lùthien's glare on her father's counsellors, Daeron realized that she would follow him, wherever he went. 

Most elven maidens would have been contented with staying in Doriath, within the protective walls of the Hidden Kingdom, praying hopelessly for their loved one to come back unharmed.

But he knew her. In fact, he was the one that had planted that seed of hunger for adventure in her heart long ago, with the very first songs she had asked him to compose, and even earlier, the Lays he taught her, when she was a child, about the Island that lay beyond the Sea and the great walk from Cuivènen, and the numerous feats of the Eldar, when he himself was but a youth that dreamed of faraway lands. 

And now, he felt it, the feeble fire he had lit had just flared up to set her whole soul ablaze, and was going to burn her out. Soon. 

The room was empty, for the most. It couldn't really be called a room. Something more like a hall. Shy sunlight streaming in from the high windows. No other light. In it stood several glass shelves, framed with finely chiselled gold, containing various items, ranging from ancient silver daggers and swords to bows of ebony to some old jars within which were things no one knew about anymore. The tall walls hung with tapestries of ancient wars and magic, not an inch of rock showing under the heavy fabric. As he paced endlessly from one end of the room to another, often did he raise his eyes, and sometimes stop, to examine them, get a closer look at a minor detail, or even passing a nonchalant hand upon the frozen faces of the long dead heroes. But always would his pace begin echoing around the hall again.

This was no lovesick young elf waiting for his date. Neither was it an offended swordsman waiting for his opponent to arrive and engage the Duel … nor an art-amateur who walked there but to look at the tapestries … though it could have come close to any of those. 

He was in love. Had been for the longest time. He was offended. And he liked art. But the main reason why he was there instead of where he belonged wasn't there ( a/n Uh, bad sentence. ). 

Daeron was trying to escape, if not from his own thoughts, at least from those of others, in this forgotten room where no one came anymore, for in his heart dwelt bitterness. Suddenly, in a movement of blind rage, he broke the glass of one of the little shelves, and seized a dagger to throw it at the face of a foaming horse. After that, he stopped pacing, and stood still. The blood from his hand dripped on the floor.

"Was it you ?" The words echoed in the oppressing emptiness of the room, as they would on a ceiling and walls of stone, though these were of cloth. Her voice behind his back was soft and calm, but contained a hardness and reproach one couldn't not acknowledge, as if already she knew the answer to her question. It was more of a statement, the sad, tired statement of someone who is faced with a truth he had refused to see. She had to have noticed the broken glass, the cut tapestry, the wound on his hand and the bloody dagger, lying at the foot of the wall. He answered not, and looked at her not, persisting in staying still and not turning around. She didn't try to make him either. Of course it was him. They both knew it. Who else could it have been ? Who else would she have told her secret to, her secret of secrets, the one she cherished and lived upon and loved with all her soul ? To whom else, but the dearest of her friends ? And he had betrayed her, betrayed her in the madness of his heart, for a cursed instant seeing not past the veil of anger blurring his vision. 

"Why, Daeron ?" she asked again, rising her voice to no more than a whisper. "Why did you have to ? What were the tortuous ways your thoughts took that I couldn't see ? Why that look in your eyes that I couldn't define ?" She came a step forwards, and stood next to him, and they both kept their gaze on the gap that was now in the place of a horse's head. "Don't you know the power of love, you who sing of love everyday ? Didn't you know when those words crossed your mind, that they were the seal of my depart from this land ? Didn't you think that I would follow him anywhere where Death might lay waiting, didn't you know of the fire that burns in my heart ?" A long sigh. Then she wanted to look him in the face, but he turned away, and began walking towards the door she had closed behind her when she entered the hall. And still, the echoes surrounded them, multiplying his steps endlessly from wall to wall. Her last words reached him when he was already at the door.

"Don't you remember the time when you used to lead me by the hand, when I was but a child, through the great trees of Neldoreth, and sing me a song ?" His hand rested on the handle, and he stopped, and turned round, though keeping his face lowered as if speaking to a lord, and not to a friend, and he bowed in front of her. He spoke in the same tone as hers, casual, light and yet bitter, but his voice was almost mocking, if it could be, clear and musical as it was.

"If my lady would allow me to once more lead her by the hand through Neldoreth, and sing her a song ..." Then he was gone, the door closing silently behind him. The daughter of Thingol found herself alone in the empty hall, and at last the truth dawned to her eyes. And her heart was troubled, for if she held the minstrel dear, as the first friend she ever had, she had love but for one, and one only. That one was Beren, son of Barahir, of the House of Beör. And he was gone, prisoner of Tol-in-Gauroth. 

After a second of stillness, she ran after him. 

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He had begun by walking slowly, engaged in dark and distressing thoughts, wandering aimlessly along the cold corridors. However, when he heard her pace approaching, he started taking long and longer strides, and eventually ran, fast as he could, and for a long time the distance between them stayed even, neither shortening nor lengthening. And both of them knew the ways of the Thousand Caves like the back of their hands, for as children it was always together they wandered around the palace of Menegroth. 

Finally, he stopped, and turned around to face her. In a few seconds she was there, turning round the corner not flushed by the run in the least, and needing catch no breath. The first words she uttered seemed, to him, a little out of place at that very moment, and almost had him in shock … if that was possible.

"Daeron, I need your help."

"Excuse me ?"

She repeated, making an expressive gesture with her arm.

"I need your help. I have to run away from here. I need you in covering up for me … just for a short time. Just a short time, and I will be away from the cover of these trees." 

"Do you fear my treason not ?"

Dry laugh. 

"You have already tasted the water to that bitter cup, have you not ?"

"What exactly do you want me to do ?"

"Just cover up. Say anything. We'll just … pretend to go in the forest together. No one will ask questions. We used to do that often enough. Stay away for a while … I'll just ask you that. Do what you can not to make my father think of me, and I will forgive you your previous treachery."

There was a short pause. Was it a last hesitation, a last struggle in his mind whether to … But no.

"I'll do anything in my power, to keep my lady safe."

And for the first time in his life, the minstrel of Menegroth made use of the power his gift had befallen him. Suddenly, as Lùthien was about to thank him, something, a queer sound, like a cross between a laugh, a song, a command, and a silent scream, erupted from his lips. It was a delicious little thing, almost alive by itself, running up and down from the highest notes that could be perceived by live ears to the lowest of the scale. At once the elven maid stood still, and all the thoughts that had inhabited her fled from her mind. The only thing she could remember, that her soul seemed riveted upon, was the flowing melody that filled her head. A smile played on her lips, and like a child, she wished the song to have no end, and tried to grasp a tune, here and there, but could not, for now the singer's voice was so fast and fluid, and shifted from one tone to another, imperceptibly, swiftly, harmoniously, and the music fled from her just as it impregnated her heart.

Still singing softly, half-humming, he slowly turned away from her, and calmly walked down the dark corridors towards the inhabited parts of the Thousand Caves. And already he was approaching these, and the halls he crossed were lit by the glow of blazing fire, when abruptly he felt a great pain in his chest, stumbled and was forced to lean against one of the walls lest he should have tumbled to the ground. But he did not cease to sing and the song he choose was thrice more powerful, for he had understood that a ray of enlightenment had entered Lùthien's eyes and pierced the veil he had set upon them. And now, but feebly, but growing stronger and stronger, he could feel her will against his own, her voice against his own, her song against his own. And he began to run, for he knew that her magic was at least strong as his own … if not ten times stronger.

Three times he lost his way in the maze of Menegroth's halls and corridors, for now in his own head he had to concentrate his entire energy into the song, the song, only the song. He had to give more and more strength by the minute, and felt himself growing weaker and weaker, and the counter spell's power becoming overwhelming. Slowly, his vision grew blurry, and his brain was filled with the melody that countered his own. 

Pounding.

Finally, as if in a dream, he found himself in front of the ebony doors, and entered the Great Hall, falling to his knees in front of the Throne. But at that time the song was of such powerful magic and had reached notes as high as imperceptible to human hearing, that the King's counselors put their hands to their ears, unable to bear it. However, Thingol, after having met the gaze of his bard for a second, understood the matter, and, thunderstruck, rose and left the Hall himself to look for his child. And Daeron stayed there, sitting on his heels, fists clenched, seemingly mute, with in his mind the struggle of two songs. 

His head was going to explode, any second. He was sure. Or he would have been sure if he could have been sure of anything at that very moment. 

~The sky was blue and cloudless. It is strange to be able to see it so clearly.~

He was drained. He knew he was going to fall any moment. At a last resort, he raised his eyes, looking for support in Melian's gaze. In that he was mistaken. For the Maia, wise as she was, could not but side with her daughter, foreseeing ill to come out of it, but deeming herself unable to change destiny. And if she spoke not, the message in her glance was clear.

"You who has betrayed my daughter twice, can you still pretend to love her ?" 

And if the minstrel magic was strong, he could not deal with the power of a servant of the Valar. Fainting, he collapsed to the ground.  

~Where does that sound of laughter and singing come from ?~

He laid there, silent and motionless, on the red carpet that covered the floor. Slowly, the elves in the Hall moved their palms from their sensitive ears, and looked around. Somewhere below, Lùthien found herself free. But it was too late. 

The musician was transported to his room, and laid in his bed. It was found that he was drenched in cold sweat, and that a high fever had seized him. But the whole time, a smile was lingering on his lips.

Author's note : Darn the ending of this chapter was hard to write. And I am so unsatisfied with it. But now I can introduce a flashback. 


	4. Children of yore

Author's note : About Daeron's name and the translation I gave it. We know that 'dae' means 'shadow'. '-ron' is the mark of gen. pl. 'Daeron' then logically, if I am not horribly mistaken, would mean 'Of shadows'. Therefore my translation of 'Come from Shadows'. The problem being, I think 'dae' is Sindarin, and '-ron' Quenya …. Let's just assume that the two languages have quite similar grammar, right ? 

Mablung seems to shrug a lot in this … actually only twice. But God, this is a long chapter … 

One question. Does anyone know what the first battle before Dagor-nuin-Gilliath is called ?

Disclaimer : I own nothing. 

And so the tune goes on …

By Le Chat Noir

Chapter four : Children of yore

The young elf was led in front of the King, and whispers erupted all around the Hall. It wasn't Menegroth yet, but still the carved columns and polished floor must have looked impressive to the stranger's eyes, for if he kept a somewhat proud countenance his gaze wandered around the hall in patent amazement. He was clothed in simple linen of green, dusty and too large, and his long dark hair was in a tangle, indicating a long period of travelling, for never a decent elf would have allowed himself to look messy, if it could have been helped. In elven standards he was a mere child, maybe, at most, fourty, and for a human he would not have looked older than seventeen, and still, scrawny for his age. Arrived at the foot of the Throne, the two guards thrust him forwards, and he stumbled a few steps, but then promptly regained his balance, blinking twice, standing and looking straight into the face of the King of Beleriand. Then one of the guards spoke.

"My Lord, we have found this intruder on your grounds. He refuses to speak. But we have not killed him, according to your law." 

The Grey Robed Lord frowned, but in his heart was a smile, for the foreigner was but a child and his large blue eyes spoke of innocence.

"How old are you, child ?" 

"Thirty-two." Was the answer, and all could hear that he had a beautiful voice, clear and bright. 

Thirty-two, thought the King. A baby.

"And what is your business here that leads you so far from home ?"

The bright-eyed elf bowed himself double.

"I am come to offer my services to the King of the Umanyar, as minstrel and story-teller."

"And who are you ?"

"A Nandor." The reply had come promptly, and promptly too the Hall was filled with indignant voices and mocking laughter. A Nandor elf, and so young, wanting to sing for the Court of Thingol ? Ridiculous. 

"Send him back to where he belongs !" An anonymous voice called, and it was approved by most the nobles elves dressed in fine silks with golden and silver embroideries. The King was silent, and the youth stood there, head bent, in the middle of unanimous scornful disdain. 

But suddenly there was silence. Interrupting the contemptuous cries, the dark-haired elf had raised his flute –a roughly carved piece of wood, a real Nandorin instrument- to his lips, and the melody that rose in the air was beautiful, more charming and delightful than anything they had ever heard. They all stood, transfixed, bewitched by the simple and yet complex tune that spoke of wind rustling in foliage and clear river songs under starlit nights. It spoke of nightingales and niphredil and elanor, of dreams and hope and sleep under the trees. Of the full odour of evergreens, and light raindrops and ripples on the silver surface of immortal lakes. Of silence itself.

The song stopped. The young musician did not make a movement, and not a sound was to be heard. At last the King smiled.

"What is your name, my child ?" 

The Nandorin elf looked up.

"I was befallen the name of Daeron by my mother's lips."

Thingol rose from his throne.

"Come from Shadows (a/n : see author's note), to Shadows you shall not return. From this day on, my Kingdom will be your home, and you will bear the title of Minstrel of Thingol."

The young elf stood in the middle of his room. It had kind of a low ceiling, compared to others, but still high enough. There was a large bed with immaculate white sheets, a finely carved ebony table, and two plain chairs of the same wood. In a drawer he found paper, ink and quills, while a dresser stood beside his bed. The sunlight streamed in from the round window, and there was a fireplace, in which no flame danced. 

It was more than he had ever had in his homeland. But despite this newfound well-being, Daeron felt tears coming to his eyes and flung himself on the bed. He had just realised the dream of his life. The Court of Thingol in its mere dawn was already somewhat of a legend among the East, a place where only the best and greatest could find a place. But to him meant much more the King's last sentence. It meant that from now on, there was no way out for him out of the Hidden Kingdom. He would never see again the woods he had been born in, even if the those of Doriath were ten times fairer, neither the home he had dwelt in, nor his family, the mother he loved, the sister he adored. The hope he had nourished for so long had at last become his prison.

The day was bright and there was not a cloud darkening the sky. Daeron sat in his favourite tree, on a low branch, and held in one hand a pack of some twenty sheets of paper, while with the other he was nonchalantly playing with a quill. The woods were silent, but for the quiet song of various birds and sometimes a quick movement between the trees … sign that a fawn or a fox was sneaking past. As for the musician, he heard nothing, entranced that he was in his composition, which he had to finish for the morrow's evening. 

"Boo!"

He had only the time to catch a glimpse of a blurry face framed by light brown hair, and a dark green mantel, before falling backwards off his seat. Luckily, he wasn't too far from the ground, and hit only two other branches before rather ungracefully making harsh contact between the grass and his back, entangled that he was in his long grey cloak. 

The sheets of paper he had held landed all around him, and one of them on his face, blocking his vision. But he already knew who was the one who had startled him. It could not have been anyone else.

"Mablung! You idiotic moron!"

Something fell on the ground near him lightly, and a soft laugh was heard, before an elven hand lifted the paper off his face. A pair of warm, amber eyes gazed into his.

"Hail."

Daeron sat up, struggling with his cloak, rubbing his back and grimacing, but at the very moment he was going to give a sharp retort something hit him in the side with such force that he had had the wind knocked out of himself, and fell on his back again, before realizing what the matter was. But when he did, then it was laughing he play-fought with the little elven princess, who looked then no more than three years old. And laughing he asked, his voice interspersed :

"Did you two have a plot against my life ?"

But all the answer he got were giggles and Mablung rolling his eyes. The young archer shrugged, smiling, and turned away from his friend to gather the papers that had fallen all around the place. When Daeron and Lùthien finally stopped fighting, the little girl had managed to pull the young singer's mantel over his face, she herself clinging to his arm, and both of them laughing. 

"Here."

Mablung handed the scores back to his friend, pretending to smile patronizingly, but kind of miserably failing. Daeron pulled the cloth off his head, and took them in one hand, quickly looking them over, but not really checking. The swordsman apprentice stood over him.

"You are lucky. She doesn't like me that much."

The musician stood up, leaning slightly right to out balance Lùthien's weight. 

"Well, what do you think a girl can like more than music and dancing?"

The little princess peered from over his shoulder.

"And you are always telling me to be silent."

Mablung came one step closer, leaning forwards to look at her at level glance, and pointed his forefinger on the tip of her nose, making her squint.

"I will stop saying that the day when you'll understand that the art of woodcraft consists of seeing and not being seen, tracking and not being tracked, and most of all hearing and not being heard !"

Lùthien stuck out her tongue, and the Minstrel of Thingol gave her a slap on the head.

"A lady of royal blood should not do that."

Mablung shrugged, and turned to look at the sky, sighing.

"I should be going. Beleg is waiting."

He began walking away. Daeron called after him.

"Have fun !"

Mablung's silhouette had already disappeared under the foliage when his reply came.

"Don't worry about that ! Orc-hunting is my favourite pass-time !"

The little girl got down, took the stack of papers from the bard's hand, and sat herself cross-legged on the grass.

"Let me see that. What is it ?"

"Just a little ballad. Nothing really."

Lùthien glanced at him sideways, and began counting the sheets of paper one by one.

"Twenty-one pages. A _little_ ballad, of course."

She shuffled through the papers to find the first page, and then began to read. Daeron stood besides her, looking over her shoulder. After a while, in the middle of her reading, the young princess of Doriath turned to him.

"Daeron, how old are you ?"

He found the question a little surprising. 

"Seventy-nine. Why ?"

But there was no answer to his own query, Lùthien going on with her own, with the hand which held the score resting in her lap.

"Mablung's older than you are, isn't he ?"

"Certainly. Ninety-six, if I am not mistaken." He smiled, looking in the direction in which the other elf had disappeared. "He's going to be officially of age in only four more years. Seriously, just look at him."

But the child paid no heed to his remark, dreamily staring off into the distance.

"I am only fifteen. It is not very old." 

After a pause she resumed talking. 

"Is it true that Father is over two millennia old ?"

This time the inquiry truly startled him.

"Who told you that ?"

She blushed slightly, and bit her lower lip.

"… Someone ?"

She was patently embarrassed, and the minstrel looked at her sternly.

"My lady should not listen to gossip."

The girl turned her eyes to him with her lower lip set into a little pout.

"But is it true ?"

Daeron shrugged, looking away.

"So says the legend."

At night, under the confounded lights of stars and Tilion, Neldoreth lived. A simple flute-playing could be heard in between the trees, the branches. Otherwise, it was the utter silence of a starry night with not a cloud, with neither wind nor cricket troubling the quietude, but the plain discreet melody that didn't even seem to exist, so agreed with the stillness it was. But it was there, it was there for who knew how to listen, flying across the air, leaving a little of its beauty and magic everywhere it passed. Daeron sat with his back to a tree, absolutely motionless, with his wooden flute to his lips. The melody he was playing was inspired by a lullaby his mother sang to him when he was a child, but the tune was not very clear in his memory, so at some moments he had to improvise. But there was no one to hear him, no one but the birds and fawns, and sometimes Nellas, but she never came out of the cover of the trees. 

It was the time of the day when already West there is but a bloody streak of red light outlining the horizon, and East the sky was dark, as Isil had not yet risen from under Arda. Lùthien of Doriath stood under the tree in which she knew her musician sat, though no part of him showed.

"Daeron, why do you always sit in trees ? It's getting boring down here."

There was no answer, but to her right, some meters away, a light sound was heard, and she spun round, startled.

"Wrong tree, my lady."

The bard had a mocking smile on his face, and, as he stood up from crouching position, dusted himself of the possible dirt that could have stuck to his clothes. He wore a hat, contrarily to his habits, as a plus to his usual white and grey garments. It was a kind of a beret, round and flat on top, and did suit him somehow, a touch of light blue that matched his eyes.

"Branches are very comfortable seats. But I can get down, too, if my lady wishes."

The girl displayed an insincere frown, to express her discontent at being made fun of. Seeing it, the older elf pasted an overly exaggerated mask of remorse on his face, and flung himself to his knees, prostrating himself. 

"Ah ! I have offended the lady of Menegroth. I deserve a thousand deaths." 

His voice was dripping with sarcasm, but the show was somewhat ruined by the fact that ten seconds later his shoulders began shaking with repressed laughter. Lùthien walked over to where he was, and stood over him.

"Rise."

He shot up, at once erasing the huge smile from his lips, and bearing but a plain and respectful expression, his face facing downwards, as if he was speaking to the grass.

"My lady said she was bored ?"

The young woman sighed, and rolled her eyes. Just what was she going to do with such a friend ? Being extremely clever and skilled, and knowing it, Daeron still regarded her as the child that had been his student, and never missed a chance to laugh at her expense, but yet always keeping within the limits of good taste. 

"Yes. I'm getting tired of dancing alone."

The surprise made him look up, and forget his acting countenance. However, after a second, he burst into laughter, and waved the idea off with his left hand, as the right was holding his lute, and his usual stack of paper.

"You wouldn't find an elf in the whole of Beleriand that could follow your pace, let alone lead you."

The princess cocked her head to one side in a mischievous manner.

"You would. You are the one who taught me."

This time he was so surprised that he took one step back, wearing the very mask of astonishment, only this time it wasn't a mask.

"Sometime the student outdoes the master."

"We'll see that …" 

"My lady ! Wait …"

He barely had the time to protest, before she grabbed his hand, laughing, and pulled him forwards, making him drop his instrument, and reach his free hand to his head, trying to prevent the hat from falling, but to no account. The headgear soon laid forgotten at a few paces away from the lute, as the Minstrel and Daughter of Thingol danced together for the first and last time of their lives. 

Anar had set, and one by one the Stars of Elbereth lit up in the darkening sky. They danced to the sound of no music but that of the birdsong. It was that night that Daeron first saw Lùthien had grown out of childhood. That the forlorn love found its way to his heart. That one more life was meshed into the thread that was Doriath's fate. 

They sat on the grass, back to back, Lùthien softly humming and Daeron letting his hands run stray across the cords, secretly enjoying the contact of her back against his. It was calm, as always, but northwards there was a column of dark smoke slowly rising to the clouds. Beleriand was at war, for the first battle in elven history. Both Teleri were looking in that direction, thinking, but in their minds were very different thoughts. 

"All the men are at war. Only the women and children have stayed behind."

She did not look at him, and did not enunciate the question that was burning her tongue, but he understood her anyways.

"My lady must not forget that I am but a scholar, and not able to wield a sword to save my King."

In saying those bitter words his voice stayed calm and shooting, and the music didn't stop, but she felt his back tense.

"Daeron ! You must not say things like that !"

Her voice was a little reproachful, but mostly shocked by the indifference he showed. His answer came preceded by an almost forced little laugh.

"Must I not speak the thruth ?"

But she had recognised the disappointment in his tone, and hazarded.

"I heard you were very good at riding."

Then suddenly the melody broke in a wrong note, probably the first he had ever played. 

"And in what may that be of any use to me ? Fleeing ?"

His voice had dropped graver than she had ever heard it, harsher and grimmer than she thought it could go. In anger he pulled a handful of grass out of the earth, but then, not knowing what to do with it, threw it down again. He rose, and, leaving the instrument there, swiftly disappeared under the umbrage, not looking back. Lùthien, a little frightened, dared not move. Daeron had never been mad at her before. To put it plainly, she had never seen him in wrath at all. 

There was no more singing that day under the leafage of Neldoreth. North the battle went on raging. But the Daughter of Thingol sat there, in stillness, and watched in agony as the few blades of green grass laid there, broken and left to whither. 

Author's note : ::falls dead:: I thought I was never going to be finished with this chapter … Only two more to go now ! In the meantime, if you would please review … 


	5. Back to shadows

Author's note : Ok, I know there's a problem with the word 'religious', as I do not think it's used in Middle-Earth. 

Question : Is Mablung actually a swordsman, or an archer, or both ? 

Disclaimer : I own not what Tolkien owns.

Elven lament

By Le Chat Noir

Chapter five : Back to shadows

The illness was long. It was something new in Doriath, as nobody had ever fallen to any kind of disease, serious or light, before. For two weeks Daeron was in bed, touching neither food nor drink, raving in his delirium. At the beginning, a broken heart was feared among the Court, the only thing beside weapons an elf could die of according to the laws of Eru. But at last, elven nature was stronger and the art of the few healers made its work. Three weeks after Lùthien had entered Hirilorn, the bard took his first steps around the palace.

___________________________________________________________________________

Now it was alone he wandered in the maze-like corridors of the Thousand Caves, following the same tracks of well-known or forgotten passages as he had as a youth. Almost nothing had changed in the unmovable stone and admirable work of silver columns and golden pillars. The same lonely rooms stayed uninhabited, and the same pale rays streamed in from the windows of stained glass. 

But suddenly there was a wall of light before him, coming from the room to his right. He slowed down his pace, however not stopping completely, and instinctively took care of silencing his step. The door was only narrowly open, a narrow space between the wood and stone from which sunlight came streaming out, and he didn't get a very clear view of what was inside. But what he managed to catch alone gave him enough to think about for a long time after.

It was just like the others, but the curtains weren't drawn, and sunlight flooded the room, shimmering on the dust that was raised by the living presence. The figure was silent, and still, kneeling, slightly hunched, in the middle of the room, dressed in a grey robe like a dark patch on gold, with long silvery hair cascading down his back, and a simple crown was laying at his feet. The atmosphere was almost religious, that one could not disturb, a sculpture of porcelain a single breath would have destroyed, an old painting of ancient time conserved in all its fragile and sad beauty. 

Daeron dared not look longer, and went on his way, passing through the light.

He thought he had recognised the silhouette. But it was not possible. Thingol, King of Menegroth, did not kneel, for he was knelt to. He did not carry himself bent like an aged man, but straight and tall like the elven Lord he was. 

Quickly, he shook the thought away. 

___________________________________________________________________________

He sat at his desk, lightly massaging his temples, with his tired eyes closed. The quill stayed put in the inkwell, the papers remained blank, hopelessly blank. There was nothing to do. Inspiration had fled him just like a scared bird would flee from a cat. She who had been his muse was now a captive, and so the music in Doriath was gagged and bound, the palace stayed silent, and in the woods resounded but the light chirps of the birds of daytime. The nightingales were mute; they refused to sing at dusk when their Lady was in sorrow. There were no more dances on the meads of Neldoreth, no more mild flute-playing under its leafage, and at night, the stars shone on the Hidden Kingdom for no one to behold. 

The song came without him noticing at first. It was just a tune, sung by a faraway voice, coming as if a lullaby, a little music to children's rhymes, and he was already beginning to doze off under its shooting influence before suddenly starting wide awake, all ears. It wasn't just a normal song from someone whose heart was light in those times of grief. Quickly, he strode to his window, and opened it wide, leaning outside as far as he could without falling out. Yes. He had sensed it right. The song was coming from somewhere nearer than he had thought at first with still half his mind in the Paths of Dreams. However it seemed very distant, and he himself heard but a slight rumor that sometimes broke with a gush of wind. And then he realised where it really originated from. The great oak Hirilorn stood not too far away.

With his lips half-parted he gazed at the tree in wonder. Now what was Lùthien up too, even in her prison, even with her father's best soldiers standing at its feet ? The guards posted under it seemed not to hear. And now he knew why. That song, simple as it was, was charged with magic. Two kinds of magic. One Silence charm. A very powerful one. Only those really versed in the knowledge of magic songs could catch the sweet notes. The second … the second was a hair-growing charm. 

After having recognised that he stood for a moment at the window, wondering if his ears weren't lying to him. So, it was to cover a hair-growing charm the princess was spending all that power ? He listened more attentively, trying to grasp another phrase that could put him on the right track, but it only confirmed what he had heard at first. It certainly was puzzling. Maybe … But no. Melian must have heard too. He had already done all he could to prevent his former student from meeting her fate. 

Slowly he pulled the windowpanes closed, then went and laid himself on his bed, with one leg dangling out, giving up on the task to try to compose anything. Almost against his will, he smiled. A hair-growing charm. This girl would always surprise him. 

___________________________________________________________________________

For once, the Great Hall of Menegroth was empty, but for three figures at the very back. Thingol sat on his throne, with Melian at his right, and Daeron at his feet, on the stairs that led up to the royal seats. In a forlorn manner his fingers pulled the strings of his lute, to the tune of an old, old song, but somehow the music that had always been alive at his hands now sounded dull and grey as it resounded on the tall walls of sparkling white. The sun shone still, as always, but its light was tainted with sorrow and weariness. The glory of Doriath, the first of elven kingdoms, was slowly dying, fading away. 

But suddenly, the ebony doors burst open, and the melody came to a halt. In ran Mablung, panting, stumbling, nearly tripping over his own feet once or twice, and in the greatest confusion threw himself to his knees at some distance of the throne. His breath came in gasps, and at first one could not understand the words he was trying to voice. At last, he managed to make out :

"Hirilorn ! The Lady has gone !"

Not a movement was made, as the last word echoed as if for an eternity. The archer was slowly recovering his breath, and all eyes were transfixed on the bringer of unwelcome news. Then, slowly, Thingol brought his hands to his face, with a deep sigh. Looking at him, Mablung knew that the news he brought had been long awaited, that the sentence had only hung by a hair, beheld by all, until it fell. 

Silently, Daeron rose, and began to walk away. Arrived at Mablung's level, he knelt down facing him, and hugged his friend with all the strength he had, leaving the swordsman bewildered. Then he turned to his sovereigns, and, bowing low, said in a calm and casual voice :

"If my King bans it not, I must take leave, my Lord."

Then he walked out of the hall from the doors that had been left yawning, and was seen in Menegroth no more. 

Melian looked at his departing silhouette till he turned round the corner, and after a while broke the silence.

"To shadows went back he who came from shadows."

Thingol said nothing.

___________________________________________________________________________

He had taken only a light baggage. The slight figure, not much taller or broader than the first time he had followed this path, was wrapped in a heavy dark grey travelling cloak. His hair had been hastily braided. He quickly strode out of town and through clearing and forest, not once looking back, for he knew that if he did he would never be able to leave. And it was after some days of walking, at the time when the night was gently falling and the stars lighting up one after the other in the sky, that Daeron arrived at the eastern marks of Doriath, after having crossed Nan Elmoth. 

There he paused an instant, and resting his left hand on a nearby tree, looked up to see the sky again after days of darkness under the shadows of the Star-dusk Valley. He knew he had then left the Kingdom of Thingol to enter the Marks of Maedhros. 

Setting to walk again, he felt a cold tear running down his cheek, as his fingers lost touch with the rough bark.

Namärië … 

Author's note : Firstly, I have no idea why Daeron went East instead of North in his quest. Secondly, I don't know how to say 'farewell' in Sindarin, so I just used the Quenya word. 

And reviews are appreciated, as always, but need I really say that ? 


	6. Neldoreth lives

Author's note : Eldarion is Aragorn and Arwen's son. Yes, that's true. And, err, he's not king yet in this. I guess just gone on some exploration of lands yet undiscovered. I just borrowed Edrahil's name from the Silmarillion, he's not actually the same person. Actually, the real Edrahil's been dead for long. Same thing for Thengel.

 Hey, I've jumped over millenaries, haven't I ? This is set some years after the beginning of the Fourth Age of the Sun. Unfortunately this author is not able to speak Doriathrin, and so wasn't able to translate the conversation. 

Some historical questions in the footnotes.

Disclaimer : I own only Thengel and Edrahil, and then not even their names. 

Elven Lament

By Le Chat Noir

Chapter six : Neldoreth lives

The horse stamped, but Eldarion made it slow its pace down, though his own heart was as impatient as how he sensed the animal's was. The land stretched out in front of his eyes, untrodden on yet by human feet, or any kind of feet, he was sure. Neither mountains nor rivers for miles and miles, as far as he could see. Behind him came a small company of his men, exactly seven of them, all mounted. And at his left, rode his best friend, Edrahil, an elf of Ithilien. 

The land was peculiar. Though their horses were tall and themselves no less, the thick dry grass danced under the wind's breath at more than shoulder height. The youngest of the guards, Thengel, had not completely reached his full height yet, and of him could only be seen the top of his head, and his eyes. For more than a week had they wandered in that type of vegetation, never changing, and all were quickly tiring of its monotony. But Eldarion made them go on, towards the East, for his heart told him that there was something to be found there. Maybe a new land that could prove useful, for his father's people was beginning to grow out of place. However, one could never be too careful, and if there weren't many Orcs left to torment the peoples, one never knew … 

Suddenly Edrahil pulled his horse to a halt, motioning with his arm for the others to do the same, and seemed to listen intently to something the Men could not hear. 

Some seconds passed, as they were all frozen, their eyes riveted to the elf's face, which showed signs of intense concentration. Then, as nothing seemed to happen, except that Eldarion was getting curious, the young prince attempted a question.

"What is the matter, my friend?"

But Edrahil's horse advanced a little further East ahead of them, slowly, and he moved his hand to his right ear, in order to hear better in the silence. 

"Shhh … hear you not the music?"

Eldarion tried to listen closer, but despite his half-elven ancestry, he had not inherited his mother's hearing, and heard nothing but the wind moaning in loneliness.

"Ah, Edrahil, what a pity we do not have more of your fair race with us! But the ears of Men are not as sharp … "

His sentence died on his lips, for when he was about only halfway through it the horse his friend mounted had darted forwards like an arrow of fire, as if answering a call from a voice that was heard only by himself.

Without thinking, Eldarion rode after him, as fast as he could, after only a mere second, assuming his men would follow. But a mere second was enough for an elven horse of the bests there were, and soon he lost sight of his friend and followed him only by the track of battered grass he left.

Some minutes later, the land began to change. He could not tell in what, but the air was different. The yellow grass was still as tall and breakable, but the ground his horse's hooves hit began to moister and grow a little more humid and soft. After some times, some small blades of timid green grass began to show. However he did not have much time to notice it all, for eventually they came out of the field of dry wheat.

The sudden change of landscape nearly blinded him. There, on the edge, Edrahil's horse was waiting, quietly grazing. The grass was as green as could be, sown with shy blossoming heads of white niphredil. The guards, depending on their speed, arrived one by one and halted behind him, all as dumbfounded and bewildered by the richness of colours and fresh odours which suddenly assaulted them. Some ten meters farther, the land abruptly went down. Below, he could see the sunlight reflecting on clear water surface, sending thousands of piercing gleams to the eye. A river flowed in a valley that no other eyes had yet beheld. But it was not it which caught his sight first. 

Edrahil stood at the edge of the ravine, near a big rock. On the rock, facing East, sat an elf.

At first Eldarion didn't believe his own eyes. From the beginning, he had thought, he had known that he was the first to have laid his gaze on these wild lands. And there, at weeks journey from any little village known to him, was that elf, sitting as comfortably as if he had been at home. It was one of the skinniest he had ever seen, too, but still conserving a bit of what in his kindred could be called grace or slenderness. Apart from the rough impossibility of his presence in those parts of eastern Middle-Earth, it looked like he was part of the landscape, as if if he would go missing the picture wouldn't have been complete, as if everything in him, his nonchalant pose, his archaic yet simple clothing, his long raven-hair took part in making him the forgotten character of a fairy tale in a fairy landscape, come right out of a book.

Edrahil talked softly to him, but seemed to have some problems in communicating. The other elf looked at him, his handsome profile outlined in shadows against the radiant light. He spoke too, softly, and his musical voice was pleasant to hear, but even Eldarion, who for a Man was versed in the knowledge of elven tongue, could not understand a word of what he said. Patently, neither could his friend. However the stranger -but who was actually the stranger in these parts? - kept absolutely calm, his voice stayed even, and always the same sentence came out of his mouth. Always the same suit of words in a language they knew not. 

Finally, in desperation, Edrahil walked back to the Men.

"I'm sorry. I heard the music, you know, and it was just so beautiful I had to find out who could be playing it in these lands. I found him there, playing the flute. He must have heard me, though I made as silent as possible, ceased the song, and turned to me, and said something I couldn't understand. I guess it was a question, but of all the languages I know there is none which pattern can fit to that of his. Since then he's done nothing but repeating the same thing over and over again, and I still can't understand …"

Edrahil brought a hand to his forehead in confusion and helplessness, and all the other Men looked at the queer elf. He had resumed his earlier position, facing east, and did as if nothing had happened, playing with his flute, a simple wood carved instrument, in his hand. 

After a while, Thengel, the youngest, stepped shyly forwards.

"I think", he said with his small voice, "I think he asked "What news from the War?" But I can be mistaken. It's all not very clear. It seems like a very ancient language."

All the heads turned to him in astonishment, and his face turned faintly red. All of a sudden, Eldarion burst into laughter.

"Ah, Thengel, I had almost forgotten you were my former tutor's son! A very wise man, was he, and you sound like you are a better student than I was." 

This time the young guard was red to the tips of his ears.

"I can try to speak to him if my Lord wants it." He proposed.

"Very well. Try if you will." 

Thengel strode quickly up to the dark-haired elf. Edrahil and the others laid down on the fresh grass, resting from their long trip, and looked on. The youth sat himself at the rock's foot, and began talking in the unknown language, with difficulty at first, then gaining more and more assurance. He kept his voice low and calm as if shooting a child. Eldarion wondered at the sound of it speaking the foreign words of another sort of beauty. He had never known Thengel's voice could be so clear and flute-like, speak so softly and yet be heard of all. From the other party, the answers came in the same way, in a silvery and quiet tone, almost casual, as if unaware of the absurdity of the situation.

They spoke long. At moments, one could have believed that they were two elves talking together, the fair child and the mysterious stranger. Though they never let their tone grow louder than needed to be heard by each other, as time went by more than often eagerness was all that could be detected in Thengel's voice. About half an hour later, Eldarion wondered if his youngest and cleverest guard had not forgotten them entirely. Looking at him, he looked just like a little boy waiting to listen to his favourite story, the evening by the fireplace. As for the elf, he was smiling in a delighted and yet painful way, speaking in that bewitching voice which made all listen and drink his words even if they understood him not, and they saw not time pass by. 

After another long while, Thengel finally stood up and walked back to them. His eyes shone like those of one who has found something he had been looking for all his life without knowing it, a secret garden of ones own, the song of a lone bird in winter, or an old book full of legends and poems not one told of anymore. Swiftly, he sat himself down, and all could see the change that was on his face. It was as if all his childish shyness had been at last swept out of him, as if a new hope and joy had entered his heart, and when he spoke it was with the convincing tone of one who was convinced himself … convinced to the last particle of his soul.

"Do you know what that language was ? It was Doriathrin. It is very little known, for the Hidden Kingdom didn't nourish that much relations with their neighbours, and then they preferred using the more common Sindarin. But it has survived, somehow, even after the Submersion. That elf there, he is really something. Like an antique, you know, and yet I should be saying something that disrespectful. He must be millenaries old." And he made fiercely expressive gestures with his hands. "He says he is come from the shadows, but he speaks Doriathrin to the perfection and has all the knowledge of all the ancient lore that has been lost over the years. I know he speaks true. It is all written in my father's books."

The Heir to the Crown smiled wryly and pleasantly teased him.

"And of course Thengel, Knight of the City, finds nothing better to do than learn his father's books by heart."

The young man paid no heed, but Edrahil shook his head.

"It is impossible. You must know that Doriath fell at the end of the First Age, and that now it lays under the depths of the Ocean. It cannot be."

However Thengel only looked at him with a triumphant smile on his lips.

"Wait! You have not heard all! I've already mentioned he said he was 'come from the shadows'. Doesn't that ring a bell ?"

For an instant there was utter silence and everyone asked themselves if the youth had not gone mad. Then, suddenly, Edrahil startled with a harsh gesture, stood up, and firmly shook his head in disagreement.

"No. That's totally ridiculous. There's strictly no way that can be ! He would be, what, ten thousand years old ?"

"You have heard the music. You have heard his voice, too. Can a voice like that be the voice of lies ?"

Edrahil's lips remained half-parted, and he remained half-standing, for a second frozen in his movement. Then, with a sigh, he fell back sitting in the circle. 

"But that doesn't make it anymore possible ! The fact still remains that Doriath had fallen even before the end of the First Age!"

Eldarion nodded in approval.

"He's right. Did you try telling him?"

Thengel looked even more miserable.

"I didn't, my Lord. I didn't have the heart to. You know, when you save a little child from the sack of a kingdom. In the confusion, do you scream at it that his parents are dead and that he is forever alone in the world ?"

But Eldarion was inexorable, for in his heart still dwelt the certitude that those lands had never been inhabited by any people, and the thought tortured his curious nature.

"You must try. We must know the truth of this story."

So Thengel, dragging his feet, went back to the rock again. He looked at the elf's face. It was fair, fair and horrible in the fact that at the deepest of the bright blue eyes laid something, a disturbing sense that could only have been wrought by years of tears flowing through them and the witnessing and feeling of many grieves and pain. And now, now he did not know that his native land had fallen and had been dead with its glory and splendour forgotten by many. And he was the bringer of ill news, while that character from ancient legends still waited, and had been waiting for Eru knew how long for news, news from the war against Morgoth. Drawing his breath sharply, he began.

"We are at the beginning of the Fourth Age of the Sun."

There seemed to be no reaction, except that the elf turned to face him. So he went on.

"The War of the Ring has just come to an end. But of course you would not know about the Rings." There was no change in his interlocutor's expression, and Thengel was beginning to feel his own face grow red and he started to blurt everything out, getting confused with his own thoughts. It looked like all his new-found fire had gone in his heart. His voice went back to what it was before, the tenuous, shy voice of a child.

"It's been more than six millenaries since Morgoth's been vanquished. The War was mountain-shattering. Literally. Beleriand's entirely been submerged by the Ocean. But Doriath had fallen before that. It was the dwarves' fault. And the Sons' of Fëanor." He felt like he was back in his father's house, under his parents' severe glare, reciting a lesson he hadn't learnt well. 

"Menegroth's in ruins. It exists no more. It has been forgotten by most. Few of those who have seen its glory remain to tell of it. For a time there was Thingol's sword in Numenor, but then that was submerged too. And …"

And then he trailed off pathetically, finding nothing more to say. The strange elf still looked at him, and for a second, Thengel thought that he shouldn't have said all that, even if his Lord had ordered him too. But, an instant later, it was a gentle smile which came upon the elf's lips.

"And what of Neldoreth?" he asked softly.

Thengel almost blinked incredulously, but caught himself just in time.

"Pray?"

"What of Neldoreth?" the elf repeated.

The young man stared at him. He didn't seem that much upset by the news that the entire world he had believed in for their first conversation was utterly shattered and lost. He hadn't even cringed. His complexion showed not the slightest sign of surprise, nor emotion. 

"It is the same for Neldoreth. Of those who have once passed under its foliage there is left only one in Middle-Earth, and he dwells in sorrow in the fair Imladris. Neldoreth is dead on Arda, and dead in the memory of those who have once loved it."

The elf did not stop smiling, but it was a smile which wrenched Thengel's heart and made him want to fall to his knees and weep.

"Did you say that Neldoreth too is now dead for forgotten ?" 

Thengel nodded shortly in grievous approval, and looked down. The thin blades of grass danced no more in the windless air. Farther, the others waited, still and holding their breath. But smoothly, a kindly hand came to rest on his head, and then three slender fingers moved to under his chin, making him look up into the still smiling pale face and light blue eyes.

"In that case, then Neldoreth lives."

And before Thengel had the time to wonder what the elf meant, a sweet melody rose into the air. The fingers left their place from under his chin and he fell to his knees into the grass, like a puppet left without strings. Intonations that sounded like words meshed themselves in the melody, but this time, as hard as he tried to, there was no telling what they meant. Mildly, pleasantly, it infiltrated his head, deafened his ears to all others sounds. He felt an irrepressible desire to laugh, but a certain uneasiness came with the sensation of utmost delight. The music was enchanting. Simple and innocent and yet full of richness and insinuating power. Slowly darkness veiled the land which only moments ago was bathed in sunlight. The song carried on, and it enveloped him in a shroud of oblivion. From the flowing river there rose a forest of tall and ancient oaks. Stars blinked their sleepy eyes in the sky, roused early from their sleep, and the moon smiled her crescent smile upon the waking world. The music weaved itself of her light and the wind rustled the translucent leaves. 

And there, between the finely wrought trunks of the majestic trees, a silver shadow danced, gilding on the grass of eternal mead. 

End

Author's note : I'm finished. My God I can't believe I'm finished with this story. But now, I've got some questions to ask.

Firstly, and no one answered me last time, does anyone know what the first battle before Dagor-nuin-Giliath called? 

Secondly, when Galadriel left the Grey Havens at the end of the third Age, does Celeborn remain on Middle-Earth ? I remember reading something about him staying in Imladris in the annals, but I can't be really sure. So if someone tells me, I'd be glad. 

Thirdly, I need a beta-reader. English's not my first language, and I apparently still have some major problems with grammar. So can someone with a good knowledge of both English and Middle-Earth history (to answer some of the questions I sometimes have) contact me if they can do that for me, please? Thanks a lot.

Probably, next story up will be called "A candle in daylight", about the friendship between Maedhros and Fingon. But I really don't know. Just too much plot-bunnies running around in my head, you know ?

And don't forget to review. I got none for last chapter; it's depressing.


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